


Hiding Between the Lines

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1, Cute Ensues, M/M, Prompt Fill, gift-giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:04:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur finds he is rather unable to even speak around the eldest Durin prince, so he decides to do things inconspicuously, because he does fancy him... putting it lightly. The five times he shows his affection to Fili and the one time (first time) Fili does it first. Hobbit kink meme fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiding Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> My first Hobbit Kink Meme Fill! I had to search pages upon pages just to find a Bofur/Fili one, and when I saw this one I absolutely had to do it!
> 
> "Five times Bofur was afraid to show his affection to the eldest Durin prince (class differences, whatever you want) and showed his love in a hidden manner. And one time he wasn't afraid and... ~"
> 
> Its 5+1 but I don't follow it exactly... but I still fill most of it. ;) Also, a bunch of thanks goes out to jokerswild for always being so helpful and so kind! :D
> 
> Title is taken and edited from the song Columbus by Snowmine.

He, his brother and his cousin were told to make their way to the Shire town of Hobbiton where the Company would rendezvous and pick up their Burglar. In truth, Bofur wasn’t entirely sure who was going and who was not, just that not many Dwarves signed up. He knew Nori and his brothers were going, and the guardsman, Dwalin, and his noble of a brother. And Thorin, He knew of nine, the remaining four were a mystery. 

He met Òin and Glòin at the marked round door bearing the rune, and the two of them were friendly enough. Glòin was a little gruff at first but he laughed at Bofur’s joke and that was good enough for him. Òin asked what the joke was again, pointing his ear trumpet in his direction and Bofur had to laugh. So far, it was a good start. 

After falling through the door and meeting their hobbit-burglar, Bofur tossed off his cloak and hung it on a spare peg, righting his hat. He admired the foreign woodwork for a moment, marveling at the polished tree roots in the front hall, and made his way to where all the commotion was at: the pantry. 

Eagerly he grabbed a plate of sliced ham and brought it to the dining table across the hall, and looking across the room, he saw the remaining two of the Company.

They were the princes Fíli and Kíli, Thorin’s nephews. 

Bofur paused for a moment, putting the plate on the table amongst the others. When was the last time he had seen them? It had to have been when they were in the forties, at least, decades. 

_Bless my beard, have they grown!_ He thought to himself and laughed. The two princes spotted him from where they were trying to sort out the barrel of ale, and both their faces split into grins. Kíli came over to him first and threw his arms around him in a brief hug and cracked their foreheads together jovially. Then Fíli strode over, his shoulders square and his eyes bright, and did the same. 

When he stepped back, Bofur must have stared for a little too long because Kíli chuckled and said (after a long pause Bofur didn’t notice), “Well, then! Come over, Mister Bofur, and see if you can crack this barrel open!” he clasped his hand on his shoulder and started leading him to where the barrel sat next to the door of the dining room. Bofur glanced back over his shoulder after he turned and saw Fíli smiling after him, making to follow. 

Ah, yes, definitely a good start. 

.  
..

\-------

..  
.

 

Bofur didn’t understand it. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. It didn’t make sense!

_How can a Dwarf be so absolutely stunning?_

Rarely had Bofur found himself tongue-tied around those he found attractive—he could talk to Dori and Thorin just fine without stumbling over his words like a blithering idiot!

He always lost his words when Fíli came around. And worse, people were starting to notice. 

Bombur chuckled to himself when he stuttered, Kíli raised his brows knowingly and Nori, damn him, made fun of him, and Glòin would punch his shoulder with a blatant wink. Fíli only ignored his idiocies and asked Bofur to repeat himself, expression amused but polite.

 _He could make an elf swoon with that face_ , Bofur thought, staring frustratingly into the stew as he stirred it. _What am I to do? Tell him just how much I fancy him? No, that’s what the others will expect. Bah. Forget it_.

He served up the first bowl Bombur gave him and handed it off to Ori first in line, and served up the others behind him. Fíli and Kíli came back out from the brush from their quick scout of the area, eagerly jumping into line. 

“That smells mighty good!” Fíli exclaimed when he caught a whiff of stew as Bifur passed him with a steaming bowl. 

Bofur smirked. 

When Fíli was up after Kíli, Bofur took a bowl and fished out as much of the meat and potatoes as he could for the first scoop. He looked sideways at Fíli, who was nearly jumping on his feet in anticipation, and gave him another scoop. He had only gave the others one heaping serving, and it would leave less for him later, but he didn’t mind, he had a stash of dried meats to eat in addition to his soup. 

He tried on his best smile when he gave the bowl to Fíli. “There you are, lad. ‘Tis quite tasty,” he said and gave him a spoon.

“Thank you. I’m sure it is,” Fíli replied, taking the spoon from Bofur and turning to go sit next to his brother with a lingering look, keeping his bowl balanced to not let the gravy spill. 

It was silly and petty, but when Kíli squawked over how much his brother had gotten, Bofur felt like it was an accomplishment. 

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..  
.

“Giant eagles? There’s no way!” Dori exclaimed doubtfully. 

Gandalf raised his brows a little and tilted his head in that way that made him look more knowledgeable than any old man ought to be. He opened his mouth to refute Dori but Ori spoke first. 

“I’ve read about them before, I think. They’re from Valinor, right, Gandalf?” he asked tentatively, holding his leather bound book in his lap, one hand still grasping a quill. 

Gandalf smiled fondly, making the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You are correct, Ori. Gwaihir the Windlord, an old friend of mine, is descended from the mightiest of the Great Eagles,” he explained lightheartedly, the Company listening to his words like there was a hidden wisdom in them (it was hard to tell with wizards, even when they were discussing the color of the grass).

After a moment, Bilbo asked, “What was his name? The mightiest of the eagles?”

Gandalf looked up from the fire to the hobbit like he had quite forgotten he was in the middle of a story. He puffed his pipe and made a few lingering smoke rings to the Dwarves’ amusement, then answered slowly, “Thorondor, I believe his name is. Many great deeds had he done in Ages past, recounted in the many histories of the Elves. Ah, but he is far from this land, over the Sea with his master.”

“You said they were giant. Can they carry Men?” Fíli asked, having almost forgotten he was sharpening the knives in his lap while he listened to Gandalf. He started absently spinning his vambrace knife. 

Bofur looked up from his mindless whittling at Fíli’s question. He hadn’t meant to, but his eyes fell on the prince. He looked up at the wizard with such boyish curiosity, his face open and inquiring as the warm orange light of the fire danced shadows on his noble features. Cunning blue eyes, sharp, fine brows, straight Durin nose, golden, golden hair that fell about his face in waving locks, a strong jaw and a thick, trimmed beard to frame it. Bofur so lost himself in his thoughts and observations he near forgot he wanted to hear Gandalf’s answer. Looking away abruptly, he pulled himself back to the present and swallowed, ignoring his racing heart. 

“Oh, yes. Gwaihir has borne Men before, though with reluctance since they are hesitant to leave their eyries unless dire need calls them. You see, since Men of the Age have forgotten them, they see them as predators and they try to shoot them down,” Gandalf explained, puffing out a billow of smoke and looking a little saddened, then added with a bit more cheer and a mischievous smile, “They fail, however. The Great Eagles are not so easy to fell.”

Conversation around the fire drifted towards other matters, but Bofur was not listening. He tossed the mangled boar he was trying to carve into the fire, much to Bifur’s indignation, but he quickly left into the woods before he could be reproached. He found a nice strong branch of pine and hacked it off with his axe, then into pieces he would share with Bifur and if he made any mistakes. Gathering the small pile into his arms he went back to camp and stuffed the chunks into his pack save one. 

He worked on the carving for the better part of the next few days, passing time on his pony and between making camp, supper and sleep, and while he was called for watch. He was careful of every detail, asking Bifur’s advice every now and then, always handling it delicately and wrapping it in his scarf when he wasn’t working on it. When he was at last finished with it, he was immensely pleased with himself. It was perfect. Sturdy and durable yet elegant and finely detailed, it was one of his favorite works he had ever done. 

He turned the eagle over in his hands, wondering what he would do with it. As much as he admired it, he didn’t want to keep it, for he had made it for someone else. The only problem was _giving_ it to him. 

Bofur turned over every though and idea in his head, scenario after scenario he tossed away, either too impossible or too embarrassing to follow through. He had never felt more like a chicken in his life as he finally stood in before Fíli’s pack, his fingers nervously running over the smooth body and the wings. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, and seeing that he was ignored, he had a split second of doubt, cold as ice. 

“Oh, to seven hells with it,” he grumbled and knelt, quickly opening Fíli’s pack and stuffing the eagle inside. He tied it shut and stormed off to the other side of camp, grumbling to himself. 

Luckily Fíli and Kíli came back from their hunting and scouting tour of the woods a short while later, otherwise Bofur would have taken that eagle back. Or was it unlucky? Either way, he was relieved when Fíli didn’t immediately go to his pack, instead finding a suitable place in the clearing to lay down the small deer they had killed. 

Bofur started another carving, a simple spoon since one was lost between this morning and now, and nobody knew what happened to it. After awhile he looked up and saw Fíli and Kíli both with their coats shucked and their sleeves rolled to their elbows, busy laughing about something amongst themselves. Kíli was working on the hide to stretch onto a frame to tan over the fire for some use or another, so it was Fíli who was carefully carving the meat off the bones for Bombur to use tonight and the rest to smoke and salt. 

There was blood streaked up his forearms, and as gruesome as it was, he couldn’t help but admire the finesse and concentration Fíli put into his work. Not to mention, he could see the muscles in his biceps and forearms through his tunic and sleeves, the tendons in his wrists taut, see how they shifted and moved with such strength and surety. 

Bofur looked away and rubbed at his heated face. _Mahal, am I in trouble_. He deadpanned at the fire, deciding he needed something else better to do, so he stood and went to help Glòin split wood. 

Later, after a fine supper of venison, Bofur finally saw Fíli go to his pack for the first time since he placed his little gift. Was it really a gift? He didn’t exactly present it to him like one normally would when giving such things. It was more like a trinket, but that didn’t fit either, since it had so much effort put into it. Bofur settled calling it a ‘thing’, since nothing else seemed to work. 

He watched cautiously, pretending he wasn’t, as Fíli pulled open his pack hurriedly, ready to dig for something, only to slow and stop once he looked inside. Gingerly he dipped his hand inside his pack and pulled out the eagle, turning it over in his hands. He looked at it closely, running his fingers over the wingspan in what could only have been amazement. Bofur thought his face had heated up, but maybe it was just his close proximity to the fire. He saw Fíli’s cheeks pull and those dimples appear and he knew he was smiling.

If only Bofur could have seen it, for it made his face shine with brilliance. 

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.

After getting soaked wet to the bone carrying what felt like a child on his back along the edge of a mountain while legendary stone giants fought in a thunderbattle, then almost getting crushed to death by said-stone giants, Bofur wanted nothing more than to sleep. But of course Thorin had to assign him first watch, so he had half a mind to convince his brother to take it, but when he saw Bombur collapse to the sandy floor of the cave and nearly pass out cold on the spot, he thought better of it. Besides, his blood was still coursing in excitement and he thought he would still be awake for awhile yet.

He sat and kept vigilance as one by one the Company started snoring. Over the quiet pattering of the rain and the loud echoes of his sleeping companions, he could hear clearly the sound of chattering teeth. Sitting up to see who it was, for he suspected Bilbo, such a small thing, he was sure to be freezing, but instead he found the eldest prince shivering like a leaf in the wind. He thought for a moment, wondering what he could do, when he remembered his blanket had stayed blessedly dry in the torrents of rain. 

He paused.

 _Oh, blast it! Now I have to!_ He thought with a sympathetic sigh, wondering if it would be too forward. No, surely not, he was on watch and he didn’t need it anyway, at least that’s what he would tell Fíli if he asked (he was still damp to his breeches and feeling a bit of a chill, but he needn’t know). Besides, the lad was making a racket and bound to crack his teeth if he kept shivering as violently as he was. He was being thoughtful, that’s all, a friendly companion. _And that’s_ all _I should hope for_ , he thought as he removed his blanket from his bag. 

He stepped his way between Dwarrows until he got to Fíli. If he was chattering this loud than he must be awake, so Bofur hoped it wouldn’t be too awkward when he laid his blanket over him. Resigning himself to whatever fate, he tossed out the blanket and carefully laid it over Fíli. 

He turned his head to face Bofur towering above him, strands of yellow hair clinging to his face, furrowing his brows in confusion. Then, before he even knew what he was doing, Bofur took off his hat and put it over Fíli’s head as an extra measure. It wasn’t properly on but at least it would be added warmth. It always kept Bofur’s head toasty, hopefully it would for Fíli too. Bofur blushed when Fíli snorted out a quiet laugh and a tired smile. 

“Thank you, Bofur,” he said in a raspy whisper, his eyes stunningly blue and soft as he fixed the hat over his head correctly. 

Once again, Bofur forgot his words. Fíli was wearing his hat and he wasn’t sure what to think about it, other than he looked ridiculous and damnably endearing. He clamped his mouth shut and forced a pathetic smile before nodding and tromping off back to his spot for watch. 

_Thank you_ , Bofur rang in his head, remembering just how his name rolled off the prince’s tongue so easily like music.

 _Absolutely_ , Bofur answered, grinning to himself. 

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.

Bofur found out that Gandalf was right about the eagles. The great birds carried the Company for what felt like leagues, over ranges and rivers as the sun peeked over the horizon. Once they were safely deposited on a large pillar of stone between rolling green hills, Bofur had never felt more exhausted and relieved in all his life. Goblins, wargs, Orcs and burning pinecones, then hanging over a precipice holding onto spindly pine branches for dear life—needless to say, he was glad Gandalf was a wise wizard. 

The Company descended from the rock formation the wizard called the Carrock, and as soon as their feet touched the solid earth, they fell to their knees in the softest grass. Without any sort of camp preparation or fire, they fell asleep right then and there. 

It was early afternoon when Bofur was finally woken, aching in every joint in his body and his muscles whining in protest. Quickly they had to leave for the house Gandalf ambiguously said would be their death sentence or safe haven. Then, on their way across an open meadow, a loud roar erupted behind them. _Oh, fantastic!_ Bofur thought as he ran a bit faster, an enormous bear on their heels ready to chomp them to bits.

It was quite the biggest bear Bofur had ever seen, easily three times the size of working oxen. The beast tried fitting his great head through the doors as the Company fought against it, snarling and roaring, slathering angrily and nearly overpowering them. When the doors were finally shut and the crossbar placed, everyone let loose great gusts of relief, panting and heaving for breath. 

“What _is_ that?” Ori asked exasperatedly. 

“That is our host,” Gandalf replied a little darkly, relief and determination settling into an odd mixture on his face. 

“Oh, that’s great,” Bofur said beneath his breath, turning to look around the house for the first time. 

There were goats and sheep and few cows and bulls, all lined up on one side of the house like a half-barn, half-living space. There was hay strewn everywhere, piled thickly against the stalls and sitting in bales along the walls beneath the windows. He watched as Bifur looked in awe at the animals, shaking his wild hair and his eyes going wide in what Bofur knew as his intrigued face. Bofur looked up and his eyes scrolled across the marvelously carved arches, the finest knots he had ever seen carved so masterfully into the wood it was like they were stamped or molded. “By my beard…,” he breathed, utterly enchanted with the craftsmanship. And it was twisting around pillars and curving along the arches and overhangs. It looked oddly like the fashions of Men, something more reminiscent of what he had seen around Dunland decades ago. It made no difference to him; he admired whatever woodwork from any race that caught his eye. 

They found some dried apples and cheese to tide them over, everyone nearly inhaling their portion. It felt like they hadn’t eaten in days after the unnecessary troubles they had been through. At least partially sated until their host would welcome or kill them, Bofur sat down on a bale next to Òin and Kíli. The old apothecary’s chin was tucked into his chest as he snored, and the youngest Durin prince had his head tilted back and his eyes closed in restful slumber. Bofur had half a mind to do the same since the sun was getting lower in the sky, but then Fíli was sitting next to him, sighing exhaustively and running his hand through his thick hair. 

_Don’t be an idiot_ , he told himself, suddenly becoming hyperaware of every movement. Pretending like he wasn’t caught completely off-guard he gave Fíli a smile, and the swordsman gave one right back. It was clear in his face how tired he was, but Bofur had never seen him look so beautiful, even with the shadows under his eyes. He realized for a moment that he was alive, they all were, and he was still completely besotted with the prince, and for once he didn’t mind. They were alive and hale and that was all that mattered. 

_Mahal help me_ , he sighed and closed his eyes, wondering whatever he was going to do. 

Fíli searched his coat and pockets, counted every hidden knife and tallying up the two he had lost in the goblin caves, the ones in his vambraces. The goblins hadn’t thought to look any deeper and for that he was grateful of their stupidity. He reached for an inner pocket and felt a strange shape. It was the eagle. Then, his pipe. He pulled it out, half laughing because he never thought he would still have it. 

At Fíli’s airy laugh Bofur opened his eyes and saw him holding his boar head pipe, wonderfully crafted and surprisingly durable. He raised his brows with Fíli’s same thoughts. Who knew a simple pipe would survive all that groveling and fighting and dirty, persistent hands. 

Fíli shook his head in disbelief and said, “Oh, if only I had some pipeweed.”

Thinking for a moment, Bofur patted himself down along his belt and coat pockets, finding what he was looking for. He held up his tobacco pouch to Fíli and smiled a little shyly, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Here, I have a little left you can smoke. Take it.”

Fíli stared at him bewildered, his mouth slightly parted in surprise under his blond mustache, lips colored a ruddy pink. He lifted his free hand in denial and said, “No, I couldn’t. It’s yours.”

Bofur shook the pouch insistently. “I want you to take it. Please.” If he sounded a little desperate, Bofur prayed Fíli didn’t think him strange. He wasn’t quite sure why he wanted Fíli to have it so much. Maybe because it was the very most of himself he could give, something as menial and fleeting as pipeweed, what a pity. If Fíli would only take the pouch then Bofur would find peace in that if nothing else, then at least he would have something of his. 

Persistently trying to shove away his self-depreciating thoughts, he made his grin wider and watched as Fíli’s face change from confusion to mild thoughtfulness, mischief glinting behind his eyes. A little dimple appeared on his cheek when he smirked, taking the pouch from Bofur’s gloved hand. “Fine,” he said resolutely, “but then we’ll smoke it together.” He looked sideways at Bofur, packing his pipe with Bofur’s pipeweed and still smiling to himself like he had won a victory. 

A warmth bloomed somewhere in Bofur’s chest at that, and he couldn’t possibly begin to resist the smile that leapt to his face.

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..  
.

“You hobbits are interesting creatures,” Bofur said with a laugh, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head to the sky, delighting in the warmth of the autumn sun.

Bilbo clucked his tongue. “As if you Dwarves aren’t interesting yourselves.” He pulled forward a daffodil flower, running his fingers gently over the buttery yellow petals. “This one is chivalry, and, ah!—and next to it is a patch of tulips. How sweet,” Bilbo chuckled to himself, moving to kneel in front of the powdery pink and yellow tulips. 

“What do those mean, pray tell?” Bofur asked, mock interesting humoring his voice. 

Bilbo smiled and gave the Dwarf a knowing look, feeling rather sly. “True love of the sweetest kind. Like a declaration of sorts,” he said wistfully, then looked over his shoulder to give Bofur a pointed look but he still wasn’t watching. “And carnations—meaning beauty, snapdragons for desire—ha! Fancy that. Hydrangea for heartfelt feelings… roses for love of course, lilac’s for innocence, camellia for perfection…”

Bilbo started listing off all the flowers he knew that courting hobbit lads and lasses would give to each other to show their intent, hoping that Bofur would get the hint. It was so obvious that Bofur was completely heels over teakettle for Fíli, punctuated obviously by his inability to ever speak to him without fumbling over his words or turning as red as a tomato! Bilbo knew the minute he saw Bofur put that eagle figure into his pack weeks ago, after he had been poring over it for days. Bofur was being a complete muttonhead! If only he would just tell Fíli… or give him some flowers!

Bofur sat up straight and fixed Bilbo a laughing and exasperated look, sticking his elbows into his knees. “Bilbo, what are you trying to say?”

 _Finally!_ Bilbo threw up his hands and groaned in relief. “Give some of them to Fíli! By all the Valar, it’s clear to everyone you fancy him—except for you and Fíli! Just do it and save yourself from those sad looks you get when he walks by.”

Bofur raised his brows, scandalized, his cheeks flaring. “I don’t get ‘sad looks’!”

Bilbo guffawed. “Oh, but you do!” he laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I think you should give some flowers to him telling of your feelings. It could work. Of course you don’t have to do it directly, since you’re fond of being furtive.”

The miner furrowed his brows, his expression the epitome of chagrin, but he quietly accepted Bilbo’s point. Bofur knew the hobbit knew because Bilbo liked to nudge him teasingly whenever Fíli smiled in his direction or said something to him to make Bofur flustered. He knew Bilbo was just trying to help, but he felt like there wasn’t much to be done, Fíli would never feel the same way—he had other priorities! Besides, Bofur was older and a miner, certainly there was nothing outstanding about him. Fíli could have literally any Dwarf in all of Middle-earth, why would he settle for his plainness?

“See? Another sad look!” Bilbo said exasperatingly, coming to sit next to his friend and laughing. 

Bofur looked at him and tried shaking whatever look he had from his face. “Fíli wouldn’t even know what they mean! They’d be just flowers to him!”

Bilbo thought on that for a moment, then said, “I’ll tell him, if you’d like, whatever ones you decide to choose.”

Bofur sighed. Did he really even want him to know? Most importantly, was Bofur even brave enough to do it? What if Fíli thought it utterly ridiculous, because really, what was a Dwarf to do with a bunch of flowers? Bifur ate them for breakfast! How cruel would it be if he gave them to Bifur? Bofur had to laugh. _Then I’ll definitely know_. 

For the next few days, Bofur wrestled with the strings of unanswered questions and open-ended possibilities enough that his head spun. He lay awake at night, listening to the sounds of animals and Dwarf snores as his thoughts raced circles in his head. Bilbo was relentless in goading him to gather up a bouquet of flowers and just give them to Fíli and run. But Bofur was not made of such stone, if only he were a different Dwarf. He had to think of another way. 

And that was when he found himself standing in Beorn’s gardens, running over Hobbitish flower meanings in his head. If only he could give Fíli all the flowers, he certainly would, since he found it so difficult to pick a few. Then he laughed to himself for having such change of heart. Yes, he would give Fíli all the flowers he could, if only. 

Thinking of his radiant golden hair, he plucked just one pink carnation. Once camellia. One purple hydrangea sprig. One lilac stem. 

Looking at his makeshift bouquet, he thought it all a little silly and juvenile, but they were only flowers and already holding the essence of his whole heart. They were only flowers, what was the worst that could happen? 

Then, remembering one more, he plucked a red tulip.

Carefully he wrapped a piece of twine around the stems, knotting it and laying them on top of Fíli’s coat. There was no one in the immediate area, most of the Dwarves wandering outside, sparring, or sitting at the table and eating. It was just Bofur. And a baby goat. 

He looked to the little thing and a smile grew on his face. “Wish me luck.”

The goat answered with a garbled squeal. 

It was around suppertime that the Dwarves outside wandered back in, chatting and stretching worked muscles, when Nori noticed the flowers first. “Oooh!” he hooted. “There’s flowers set out all prettily on your coat, prince!”

Realizing it was him Nori was talking to, Fíli turned away from where he was playfully nudging Dwalin and Kíli at a lost bet, seeing what Nori exclaimed about. As the Dwarves all laughed cheerfully Fíli’s face changed into that of innocent curiousity. He walked over to his coat while the Company teased him about who it could be, poking and nudging the nominees, pushing and clapping Fíli’s shoulders like he was a lucky winner of sorts. 

Bofur sat at the table with his brother and Bilbo, who smiled at him happily. Bombur simply shook his head with a smile and gave Bofur a sly glance that told him he knew everything. Bofur simply shrugged his shoulders innocently. 

“You have to put them in a vase, brother!” Kíli exclaimed, finding the whole spectacle hilarious. 

“Here’s a tankard!” Dwalin tossed one over to the archer, who filled it in the trough in the barn and gave it to Fíli to put the flowers in. 

“Ah, won’t your secret admirer find that charming?” Dori teased as Fíli made his way into the Kíli dogging his heels. He clearly blushed from all the attention, trying to hide his grin in his beard, but it really just made him look all the more lovely. Bofur was secretly very pleased with the results. 

Fíli walked to the window behind Bofur’s side of the table and put the tankard-vase of flowers on the windowsill, arranging them delicately before stepping away. He walked up behind the miner without his notice and said, “Oh, yes. Secret.” His voice was low but still loud enough for those gathering at the table to hear, bearing a cadence that made Bofur jump and shiver. 

He looked over his shoulder to see the prince running his hands through his hair and shaking it out, glimmering like fresh cut wheat and just as gold. 

_Oh, shite_ , Bofur thought with a quiet gasp, quickly shutting it behind his mouth. He pointedly looked to his tankard of mead to avoid the teasing glances he felt digging into his forehead.

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..  
.

Bofur sat dripping wet on the shore, his chest heaving trying to catch his breath, and stared in horrified awe at the great plumes of smoke ascending into the sky like thunder clouds. Laketown burned like the mine fires, burning, blazing intensity like the sun had fell to the earth. The wind carried the stench of boiled water and charred wood with the fetid undertone of burned corpses and a dead dragon. It filled the air until Bofur no longer noticed. The people shied away from the water like it was cursed, getting as far away from shore as possible.

Oh, yes, Smaug was dead. That had indeed been real for the last hour felt like a dream, filled with fire and deafening screams and crumbling houses. The beast was at last felled for good by Bard, whom the people now penned the Dragon-slayer, putting the last black arrow to good use. It was all so wonderful and so tragic it continued to steal the breath from him and Bofur had to continue to chase it. There were so many dead, so many broken bodies and burned limbs, floating like driftwood in the lake. The destruction of what once was Esgaroth took a mighty chunk of the population and as yet it was impossible to tell how many, but a pitiful number made it shore safely.

There were still men and women and children appearing out of the water like they were made of it, sputtering and gasping for breath, choking back tears. Bofur helped them to the camp and situated them as fires were made. It all passed by him without hardly registering the plight and fear and consuming exhaustion that plagued the remainder of Laketown. He simply acted. There was nothing else he could do. 

By the time the sun made it over the horizon, there were only burned stilts and posts, portions of decks and boats left of Esgaroth, the smoke slowly filtering in the air but it still lingered like a stench. They buried the dead along the fallowed fields of the few farms around the lake, accounting them and tallying. About a third of the city was ashore and alive, most wounded and nursing burns of various degrees. The supplies the farmers were able to provide was scarcely enough so they rationed them all, but they made do. The farmhouses and barns were shelter and the canvas that was given forth were built into tents, blankets and furs were passed around, many sharing the warmth among each other. Òin was to and fro with the elf-lady Tauriel binding wounds and making salves, the ladies Sigrid and Tilda helping where they may, and Bain helping his father portion out food and calm the people. 

As the Master was making a right arse of himself ordering his henchmen to fetch more stew (that Bofur made, mind) and stoke the fire he was comfily arranged in front of, Bard took the command with purpose. He organized capable messengers to make haste towards the Woodland realm to send word of their need for supplies and that the dragon had been slain, organizing shelters and makeshift lean-to’s, and always settling the fears of his people and comforting them how he might. He denied the food that was offered him, always back and forth and directing and helping. The only people who could finally make him sit were his children. 

After cleaning out the cauldron of stew on the second day after Smaug’s defeat, Bofur quietly nicked some of Òin’s salve and a roll of bandages, wandering to a spot of solitude among the camp away from the sick tents and busy fires. He sat on a fallen log and carefully peeled away the gauze wrapped around his hands, hissing when the thin blisters were pulled open, the scalds burning fiercely at the unwinding of the fabric. His hands shook in blinding pain and he found it difficult to breathe for a few long moments. Burns were like open wounds, and a dragon’s fire burns hotter than any forge. 

Bofur heard the quiet swish of boots on the grass approach behind him and he turned just in time to see Fíli look at his reddened hands and gasp. Before he could say a word Fíli moved to kneel in front of him, blatant consternation writ on his face. “Oh, Bofur,” he said beneath his breath, withering. “Your hands.”

Once again, the way he said his name was enough to nearly knock the miner off his feet. He put on a thin smile and tried to still his trembling hands, knowing it was terribly forced. “I’m alright, truly.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Fíli said, taking his wrists cautiously to look at them closer. “This looks very painful,” he said with hints of dismay in his voice, an empathetic look in his eyes as he glanced upwards. 

Bofur sighed. “Well, it is painful,” he conceded but unwilling to play into Fíli’s concern. He should be the least of his worries. 

Fíli didn’t reply and instead picked up the tin of salve between Bofur’s boots, popping it open against his protests and scooped out a dollop. He took Bofur’s left wrist and pulled it forward, his grip not tight but insistent. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked quietly, a tremor beneath his voice that spoke louder than the worry creasing his brow. Bofur clenched his jaw and resisted pulling his arm away as needles shot up his arm, hissing violently through his teeth.

A few moments later, Bofur was able to speak without shouting. “There are others who are in more need than me,” he answered simply. He didn’t understand why this was so important to Fíli, why he was so bent on his burned hands, why it even mattered. He was the diplomat of the Mountain, vouching for Thorin and the gold that was promised, he should be elsewhere smoothing the worries Bard had on making good on those promises, being a proper prince. What was he doing bothering with Bofur? Why?

“I’d say you should have brought it up days ago. Bofur, you moved a burning rafter! If only I’d known it burned so bad…,” that tremor reappeared, making his sigh tremble, and he shook his head in what seemed like frustration. 

“You have Kíli to worry about, not me. What are you doing?” Bofur protested, furrowing his brows, his own frustration mounting. 

Fíli sensed it and gave Bofur a calloused stare. “Kíli is fine now, from Tauriel’s help. He’s able to walk, with a crutch, but still walk. You can hardly hold a spoon.”

“I can hold a spoon. I’ve been cooking,” Bofur retorted staunchly.

Fíli shook his head. “With excruciating pain, I’m sure. You hide it well, I admit, but I refuse to sit back and let you continue lying about your pains,” he said resolutely, attempting to leave no room for questions but Bofur still held his own. He finished with the salve and picked up the roll of bandages, starting on Bofur’s fingers. 

He was becoming increasingly unsettled with the acute determination on Fíli’s face, the care with which he used to bind his wounds so tenderly, albeit concentrated. Why was Fíli concerning himself? It was maddening, yet… it was _Fíli_ , how could he push him away? 

He pulled his hand back when he couldn’t stand it any longer, unaware of the swelling fear he revealed. “Fíli, please. I can do it myself,” his voice shook. 

Fíli stared up at him alarmed, wondering why he suddenly looked so afraid. Did he hurt him? Was it what he said? His eyes searched Bofur’s face for any hint of an answer, and found none. “Bofur,” he uttered breathily, his words suddenly lacking. 

_Bofur_. It fell so easily from his mouth, hitting like an arrow into Bofur’s heart. It made it harder to turn away, so much harder. He wasn’t sure he could do it, he desperately wanted to, but hearing his name was like a plea, a declaration, and he so wanted to hear it again it ached in his bones. He wanted to turn and run. Fíli kept his eyes held and he couldn’t look away, caught utterly in the unabashed hurt and confusion in his face. 

“Please,” he choked out, surprised with how thick and broken his voice sounded to his ears. A flood of tears burst at the dams behind his eyes but the fought them off valiantly. He didn’t deserve the care and softness Fíli showed him, he had done nothing of value to earn it, he was a miner! He could do without him. Bofur was unimportant. Fíli was everything. 

The prince glanced down and saw that Bofur’s hands were pulled loosely into fists, wavering and trembling as the pain seemed to numb his attention to it. Bofur kept his eyes on Fíli as he reached out to his left hand again and carefully take it into his own, delicately pulling his half-bandaged fingers open. “Why will you not let me?” he asked almost so quietly it was like a whisper, raising his eyes to reflect their questioning brilliance unto Bofur. He almost shied away, he was so beautiful. 

A hundred things to answer him ran through his mind in torrents, half of them on his tongue but too fragile to speak. Finally, he said, “Don’t you know?”

It was the longest moments in Bofur’s life before the world started moving again. Realization bloomed on Fíli’s face and his lips slightly parted, his shoulders slackening just barely. Ah, so he did know, Bofur surmised. Of course. What a fool he had been. 

He waited for Fíli to laugh and to shake his head and tell him something completely different, to turn and leave and never speak to him again. He waited for him to tell him no.

He didn’t expect for tears to sprout on the edges of his eyes, or his brilliant smile to appear on his face.

And he didn’t expect him to lean up and kiss him, either.

Bofur found himself closing his eyes and kissing him back despite everything he had told himself. A shiver ran in rivulets down his spine, seeping across his skin. His lips were so soft, his thick hair smelling of pine needles and wood smoke. It was unexpectedly the loveliest thing. 

Fíli sat back on his heels with a shy smile but it took Bofur another moment to open his eyes again. Fíli’s fingers graced the inside of his wrist as he held it, his other hand staring to resume wrapping his burns. Bofur looked down at Fíli and saw that he was looking back, a light blush across his cheekbones. 

“Yes, I knew, or I thought I did. You gave me that eagle, and those flowers,” he said serenely, softly smiling. 

Bofur found he was chuckling, still in utter disbelief. “I thought I was being sneaky.”

Fíli snorted. “Sort of, but not really. I waited to see if you would do anything else and you never did. Probably didn’t have the time between Mirkwood and the Elves and Laketown,” he finished with a hint of sarcastic humor and they laughed. “Will you let me bind your wounds? I would like to.”

Bofur’s heart thudded in his chest, that familiar and yet dearly missed warmth blooming deep within, and he nodded. 

“Okay,” he answered softly, and let Fíli do his work.

**Author's Note:**

> It is true that Thorondor is the mightiest of eagles, but he seems to disappear between the Silmarillion and The Hobbit, so it's generally accepted that he left Arda to go back to Valinor where his master, the Vala of Airs, Manwe, resides. He saved Maedhros and wounded Melkor/Morgoth in the process so he's pretty cool. 
> 
> I hope to hear what you think! I'd love to know what your thoughts are on Bofur/Fili since the ship is fairly small in comparison to the other streamliners. Thanks for reading!


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